Fraternity
by Tor Raptor
Summary: A Fragile Ficlet: Sherlock's fight against leukaemia affected everyone close to him in different ways. How did Mycroft cope?
1. The Code

Chapter 1: The Code

Mycroft had been a mess ever since this whole ordeal began. Now, 'mess' was a relative term when considering Mycroft's usual demeanour. From the outside, he appeared to be handling everything beautifully—at least, that's how he hoped he came across. But inside, he was tearing himself apart. He'd always strived to be in control: control of the British government, control of his own emotions, and control of his little brother. For the most part, he'd succeeded.

If there was one thing he loathed most in the world, it was feeling powerless. He couldn't think straight if anyone but himself was dictating what happened in any given situation. It made him feel helplessly afloat, drifting about at the whim of the ocean's current. Throughout his entire life, he'd done everything humanly possible to remain in control.

But one person always managed to throw a wrench into his perfectly-oiled system: his own younger brother. Even when they were kids, Sherlock was the complete opposite of everything Mycroft stood for. He'd been a messy, disorganized, and obnoxiously loud toddler. Scratch that, he was a messy, disorganized, and obnoxiously loud adult, but it was even worse when they were younger. He'd left his pirate toys strewn all over the house, sometimes even in Mycroft's bedroom, even though he'd forbidden Sherlock from ever entering. The child's own room had been a certified disaster zone; the one time Mycroft had dared peek inside, he hadn't been able to see the floor beneath all the debris.

Modern 221B Baker Street wasn't all that different, but now John was there to keep Sherlock somewhat in check. Mycroft was incredibly glad of his presence, as he was one of a select few people who knew Sherlock both before and after the doctor entered his life. Although the drug situation had resolved when Sherlock began working for Lestrade, Mycroft was still on high alert for a relapse until John showed up. With him around, Sherlock was as far away from considering 'the sauce' to alleviate boredom as he ever could be. This was just another weight Mycroft was glad to have lifted from his shoulders. The past couple years had seen a peaceful equilibrium in the British government's life. But of course, good times never last.

Mycroft let his guard down, and a monster snuck in. A monster he'd never faced before. He could handle the minor sprains, the broken bones, and the overdoses, but he'd never encountered cancer before. To say he was unprepared would be an atrocious understatement. He remembered when he first heard the diagnosis, he'd been in denial. He wanted to tell the doctors there had to be a mistake, that they'd mixed up or mislabelled their tubes. He wanted to make them rerun everything because there was no way Sherlock Holmes, his baby brother, had leukaemia.

But Mycroft knew, deep down, that there was no mistake, that this was real. Once he'd come to terms with it, he'd had to sit by and watch, knowing he could do nothing about it, as his brother suffered unimaginable misery. His life had literally become the incarnation of his worst nightmares. He'd never experienced anxiety before, but the constant edginess he felt could be defined by no other term.

One would think that in this state he'd jump at any opportunity to participate in Sherlock's care, to potentially help cure him. But decisions for Mycroft could never be that easy. He knew that as a sibling, he'd be the first candidate addressed about donating bone marrow, and initially he'd been eager to regain some semblance of control over the situation. But as he was left to mull over the idea, he was plagued with terrible thoughts. He remembered picking up the pieces after some of Sherlock's worst overdoses, reading the lists he'd left with mouth agape because there was no way a single person could take so much and still be breathing. He'd always managed to fix him up after those instances, but drugs were something he knew how to handle. This was something entirely different. Something unfamiliar.

He began to wonder: what if it isn't enough? What will I do if I donate and he dies anyway? He didn't think he could live with himself knowing that he wasn't good enough. He was literally seconds from asking Anthea to call the hospital when he got the call from John Watson. While he knew the doctor could be a powerful little firecracker, he never expected the verbal warfare the man would wage over the phone. Mycroft physically shrank away from the angry voice on the other line, immediately feeling guilty. Because of course John saw right through him and knew exactly what was going on inside his head. He'd lived with Sherlock long enough to know how to handle a Holmes, and he was a bloody expert.

At the time, Mycroft had thought he couldn't possibly ever feel worse than he did then. But he should have known that life's cruelty knew no such bounds. Without a question, the worst moment of his life was that first time Sherlock coded. Things had been going progressively downhill for so long that Mycroft was preparing himself for the worst. At least, he thought he was preparing. The truth was that no amount of preparation could ever help with the hell that was to ensue.

He sat in Sherlock's room with John and DI Lestrade, the only sounds the mechanical hiss of the ventilator and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. He spent those hours in a mental sparring match with his own thoughts. Every time a terrible vision attempted to display itself, he tried to forcibly beat it away. He reran his favourite movie in his mind over and over again, anything to keep from thinking about what would happen if...

It happened. He'd heard the sound on countless medical dramas: the shrill tone of a flatline. Immediately, all his mental defences were washed away by a flood of panic and fear. His memories of the moment are a bit fuzzy, maybe because his brain was trying to block it all out. He remembered John trying unsuccessfully to push his way through a horde of nurses and doctors, screaming for Sherlock. He and Lestrade had to go up and drag him away so the medical staff could actually do their jobs. When his hands made contact with the doctor's body, he felt him violently trembling. While his own emotions hadn't manifested in such a way, he felt like his mind was shaking itself apart.

He didn't remember the turns they took once leaving Sherlock's room; all he knew was that they ended up in a blank room with couches and chairs. John was obviously an absolute wreck, and Mycroft felt the way the doctor looked. The Detective Inspector went over to comfort John, and his stern but sympathetic approach worked wonders. Mycroft listened as John's breathing gradually slowed down to normal, and wished his own would do the same.

To banish the bad thoughts, he zeroed in on one spot on the wall. There was a slight contour, as if a drywall screw hadn't been placed tight enough. At that point, he was truly convinced it was the end. His last glimpse of his baby brother was to be him hooked up to countless machines being violently manhandled in an attempt to bring him back to life. He felt the backs of his eyes burning with unshed tears, but he wouldn't allow them to fall. Even if he could no longer control what happened to Sherlock, he could manage his own reaction. So he would not cry. Not here, not now.

He blinked heavily and continued to stare intently at his spot on the wall. The colour of the paint reminded him of the sand on the beach his family had frequented before he'd left for university. The beach where the four of them had sat together and had picnics or spotted funny shapes in the clouds. The very beach where Sherlock had first claimed he wanted to be a pirate. Mycroft remembered a young Sherlock, maybe three or four, digging in the sand with a small plastic shovel. Mycroft himself had been absorbed in a book when his younger brother came up to him and presented him a large, flat circle. Mycroft marked his page in the book, set it down, and gently took the offered gift from Sherlock. The little boy was beaming from ear to ear. Mycroft looked more closely at the circle to make out the markings around the edges, and he saw that it was a toy gold doubloon.

"Where'd you find this, Locky?" he'd asked. Remembering his brother's childhood nickname intensified the need to cry, and Mycroft forcibly swallowed against it.

"Dug it up!" he had announced proudly, holding up his shovel.

"Wow, that makes it buried treasure," Mycroft had told him. Little did he know that this simple phrase 'buried treasure' would lead his younger brother to an obsession that lasted the majority of his preadolescence.

"Buried treasure! Like the kind pirates find!"

"Exactly like the kind pirates find!" Mycroft'd parroted back. Sherlock had scrambled away to dig more holes in search of more buried treasure. He didn't find any, but that did nothing to quell his growing fascination with pirates. Next thing he knew, their house was filled with library books on Blackbeard, Anne Bonny, and Calico Jack.

Not until he stopped to think about it did Mycroft realise just how much he missed the good old days when they were both young and innocent. Being seven years older, Mycroft remembered a short period when he'd been an only child, before Sherlock came along. Most elder siblings would feel somewhat neglected once a new baby arrived in the household, but not Mycroft. Ever since Mummy told him, he'd been looking forward to a new friend.

Anyone who'd ever met Mycroft knew that he hated ordinary people. They were much too slow and prone to sentiment. Sherlock had proven to be significantly faster and more fun than the average boy, but slow enough that Mycroft could always beat him. That's just the way he liked it. But nobody but Mycroft was allowed to beat Sherlock Holmes. Cancer certainly wasn't allowed to beat Sherlock Holmes, but maybe it just had.

Most people who knew Mycroft saw only the stern government official, but he didn't consider that his real job. All his life—minus the first seven years—Mycroft's job was to look after Sherlock. As a child, he'd needed supervision to keep out of trouble, and that hadn't changed as they progressed into adulthood. Without a little brother to manage, Mycroft didn't know what he'd do with his life. Sherlock was a constant that he'd never before had to consider going without. Now that this disease had forced him to entertain the thought, he was horrified.

Even worse than that idea was the prospect of having to tell their parents. They travelled often, and because of this saw their sons maybe once a year at best. Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate that they'd been out of the country for the entirety of Sherlock's illness, Mycroft was yet to decide. He'd refrained from contacting them to inform them of the situation until he saw how it played out. No use in dragging them back from wherever they were just to watch their youngest son die.

Mycroft's train of thought was stationed right about there when a doctor finally found them to tell them the good news. Mycroft felt physically lighter knowing that he didn't have to consider a life as an only child just yet. Lestrade and John also sighed with relief, and the army doctor dashed out of the room as soon as he was told he could see Sherlock. Lestrade and Mycroft glanced at each other knowingly. They both understood that if things went south again, they could easily lose John too.


	2. The Call

**When I wrote this scene in Fragile, I debated adding the dialogue of the phone call between Sherlock and Mycroft, but I decided it would be better to leave it out. Instead, I put it here. I might have to say that brotherly banter might be my favorite thing to write :)**

Chapter 2: The Call

Against all odds, Sherlock had beaten leukaemia. After that first close call, Mycroft threw himself deeper into his work to avoid thinking about the worst. Even once the immediate danger had passed and Sherlock began to recover, Mycroft found he didn't want to watch his little brother suffer any more than he already had. He was more comfortable receiving information only, without having to witness how drastically Sherlock's life was forever changed. Mycroft felt safer when he was behind the scenes pulling strings, not out in the real world doing 'leg-work' as he often called it.

He'd told John to let him know if his presence was required; he preferred to stay removed, but if he was actually needed he wouldn't hesitate to storm in with the cavalry and seize control of the situation. So it wasn't an empty offer, but as he typed that text he secretly hoped that he wouldn't be summoned. Evidently, John could handle it on his own because he never contacted him. Mycroft's assistants gave him twice-daily updates on his brother's progress, and he could barely conceal his elation when he was told that Sherlock was to be discharged.

It was a massive step in the right direction, and Mycroft hoped Sherlock would never look back. He himself would certainly try his hardest to erase the worst of the memories, but even his brain lacked such precision. He'd be forever haunted by the emotional trauma, but his scars would pale in comparison to Sherlock's.

Just a few hours after Sherlock was scheduled to leave, Mycroft found himself in the middle of a video conference with the Prime Minister and the President of the United States. He didn't remember the details of their interaction, since they were relatively inconsequential, but he did remember vividly the sound of his phone interrupting the Prime Minister. If it was just any call, he would have silenced it and handled it later, but he recognised the tone instantly. His phone had exactly three ringtones: one for work, one for his parents, and one for Sherlock.

Sherlock never called. But there was no other plausible reason for his phone to be making that noise. It had rung three times before he realised he'd been staring blankly at his computer screen while his fellow callers attempted to get his attention.

"I'm sorry," he managed to stutter. "I really must take this call, it's a family emergency." Abruptly, he exited from the video conference and snatched up his mobile from the nearby table. Sure enough, the caller ID read 'Sherlock.' However, he knew his little brother always texted, so Mycroft immediately began running through deductions. Maybe John had lost or broken his phone and had been forced to use Sherlock's to alert Mycroft to a developing emergency. Or Sherlock was somehow incapacitated and unable to text, so had resorted to calling in order to contact Mycroft.

Mycroft answered the phone to learn the real reason for the unprecedented phone call.

"Hello Mycroft," Sherlock's voice greeted. So the John calling theory was ruled out.

"Brother dear, so unexpected of you to call," Mycroft stated. He had to admit he was a little shaky with concern over the reason for this call, and he tried to hide it by sounding mildly annoyed. Sherlock had actually interrupted an important meeting, so Mycroft had every right to be annoyed. But more than anything he was curious. What was this all about?

"Yes, well John was pestering me and this was the only way I could get him to shut up and leave me alone. He said that you'd want to hear from me now that I'm home, but I assume you're about to contradict that statement by castigating me for interrupting one of your little séances."

So John was behind this; he'd instructed Sherlock to call Mycroft to let him know he'd been discharged? But John knew him well enough by now to expect him to know everything even before he did. Mycroft did know that Sherlock was home, but did he also want to hear from his brother's own mouth how things were going? As much as he loathed to admit it, he did. Listening to Sherlock pettily insult him was immensely reassuring.

"First of all, never once have I participated in anything that could be considered a séance. And secondly, John was correct: I'm enjoying this little conversation we're having."

"It's a lot easier to lie over the phone than in person," Sherlock stated, suggesting that Mycroft's previous statement was false.

"It's also equally difficult to tell the truth in either situation."

"Why are you suddenly going all philosophical? I just got out of hospital, my brain can't handle such rhetorical nonsense."

"Sherlock, your brain is in perfect working order. Well, by that I mean it's no worse than it used to be. Stop trying to change the subject."

"I didn't change the subject. And while I appreciate the insult—really, some of your best work—I'd love to get this over with so I can return to scraping my life back together."

"Get what over with?" Mycroft questioned.

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "What do people typically do in these situations?"

"Based on the minimal knowledge I possess on this topic, I'm going to begin by asking you how you're feeling."

"That's the best you've got? That's ridiculous."

"Okay, how about I tell you that I'm happy for you."

"What? Did I win an award?"

"No, but I assume your liberation must feel somewhat like obtaining a prize."

"You're correct. I haven't felt so relieved to leave a place since I left our house for university."

"Mummy and Dad aren't _that_ bad," Mycroft said, already doubting his statement a little bit.

"That's debatable."

"You do have a point. After all, their combined genes created you."

"And you," Sherlock pointed out.

"Fair enough. Anyways, remind me again why you called in the first place? Arguing with you tends to wipe out my short-term memory." This was a lie, but Mycroft knew John had wanted him to call so they could have some sentimental, brotherly heart-to-heart. While he would usually scorn the very suggestion, today he felt like he needed some catharsis.

"John made me."

"And why do you think he did such a thing?"

"He's probably sick of my company."

"No."

"He wanted me out of the room so he could watch some stupid show without me commentating."

"No."

"Sentiment?"

"Warmer."

"Brotherly bonding?"

"Even warmer, but I'm going to butt in here or we'll be here all day." Mycroft took a deep breath and braced himself for the confession he was about to make. "Sherlock, it's a great relief for me to know that you're home and healthy. Hearing your voice right now is much preferred to reading a text message."

"Well, I can't exactly type very quickly or accurately in my current state."

"Understandable." Mycroft had almost forgotten about Sherlock's scarred fingers and the simple things he wouldn't be able to do or would have to relearn. "You're probably laughing at me right now for giving in to emotional mushiness, but I meant what I said earlier."

"Which part? You talk an awful lot."

Mycroft sighed in exasperation. He'd made his intentions quite clear, and Sherlock was clearly trying to steer him away from the topic. They never talked like this, and neither of them was used to it. Mycroft felt like he'd had his skin stripped away, leaving him dangerously unprotected.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I'm attempting to express my happiness regarding your homecoming, and you're resolutely denying me the opportunity."

"Yes, you must be glad to finally be unburdened of an infirm little brother and able to return to ruling the world full-time. I won't be bothering you by almost dying anytime soon. You're welcome."

"Dammit Sherlock! Why won't you just let me tell you that I love you?!"

Mycroft's train of thought stopped in its tracks, and he stood silently clutching the phone to his ear, panting. What the hell did he just say? Mycroft hadn't said those words to anybody since he was a young boy and his parents had practically demanded it from him. Did he really feel this way? How long had he been holding back those words? He didn't know. But now that he'd said it, he felt a weight lifted from his chest.

There was no other word to describe his feelings towards his little brother. Sherlock would always be his to protect and shield from the horrors of the outside world. Just because Mycroft had been miserably defeated in this duty once didn't mean he'd ever stop trying. The two of them had spent essentially their entire lives together and had endured thick and thin. Mycroft and Sherlock were bound not only by shared genes, but by experience and hardship. So maybe they constantly bickered and insulted each other, it was just a silly game they played. Knowing he had Sherlock offered consolation in Mycroft's often desolate life. Sherlock was a crucial piece of Mycroft's life that he wasn't sure he could ever live without. By all definitions of the word, that was love.

"Sherlock, are you still there?" Mycroft asked, the phone having gone silent after his confession a few moments ago.

"Yes."

"While my delivery was a tad brash, I meant what I said."

"I'm... touched." Sherlock hesitated, but Mycroft knew he struggled with admitting his feelings just as much, if not more, than Mycroft did. The fact that he'd said so much as that was incredibly meaningful.

"This is usually the part where you would say, 'I love you too,' but I understand if you're not willing to go that far. I can be quite the irksome prick, and you've no obligation to reciprocate my confession."

"I think I've just overdosed on sentimentality. I'm going to hang up before I pass out."

"Okay, Sherlock. Please listen to John; you'll still be recovering for quite a while, and his medical experience is unsurpassed by any of your other immediate acquaintances."

"John is much more than an acquaintance, he's my friend," Sherlock defended. Mycroft himself didn't have many of either, so the distinction was inconsequential. But John was definitely the best friend Sherlock could ever hope for; they were very lucky to have found each other.

"Of course. Get well soon."

Mycroft hung up after his somewhat cliché well-wishing. That was undoubtedly the first time he'd ever been so open with his little brother. Thinking about it now that it was over, they'd been missing out. Sometimes Mycroft felt so bottled-up with stress, he felt like his head would pop off like a champagne cork. Meaningful conversation such as this was a way to let the strife seep out in a much more controlled manner. It certainly beat drowning his sorrows in cake and whiskey.

Mycroft returned to his desk and sat down. He really should return to his video conference and apologise for the interruption, but his heart wasn't in it. His professional colleagues were unaware of the specifics of Sherlock's condition, just that Mycroft had taken the occasional day's leave because of illness in the family. They probably assumed it was an ailing mother or father on death's door. The truth would surely make them even more sympathetic, but Mycroft didn't want their pity. If he was honest with himself, what he really wanted was to march over to Baker Street to share in the joy of Sherlock's return. But he and John deserved this day to be alone together without literal Big Brother watching them. He knew when he wouldn't be welcome, and wouldn't let his selfishness get in the way of two best friends revelling in their newfound freedom.

Instead, he stood and made his way to his bedroom. In the back of his bedside table, hidden beneath a clutter of worthless papers, he'd hidden a family photo album. If anyone knew he kept this so close, his reputation for stoicism and anti-sentimentality would be ruined. He perched on the side of the bed and caressed the cover, on which lay a picture of a seven-year-old Mycroft clutching a bundle of blankets. He smiled, remembering fondly the day that had changed his life forever. He idly flipped through the pages, recalling all the nonsense that had gone on in the Holmes household. Sherlock had been such an innocent but troublesome little boy, and Mycroft his stern minder from day one.

He wished he could go back in time to when things were so much simpler. To an era before Sherlock's life had been irreversibly ruined. Despite all the power Mycroft possessed, things slipped through his defences. However desperately he wanted to stop them, some demons were simply beyond his reach. But one silver lining shone through the masses of darkness: this ordeal finally allowed him to break down the walls that stood between him and Sherlock. It cemented their brotherhood.


	3. The Crackdown

**Author's Note: I was inspired to write this chapter by a reader who was dissatisfied with the absence of Sherlock's parents in the Fragile story. It made me realize that I was also dissatisfied; that was an aspect I'd failed to address in the original. So, I thought this was the perfect place to elaborate on their role. This chapter actually turned into something even bigger and more meaningful than I intended, and I hope you enjoy it.**

Chapter 3: The Crackdown

Mycroft knew this day would come eventually, but that did nothing to assuage his dread. He'd taken a calculated risk when he made the decision, and he'd hoped it would prove to be the right one. At the time, there were so many confounding variables that it was impossible to firmly conclude which was the lesser of two evils. Mycroft didn't know how it would end, so he couldn't decide exactly how it should begin. If there was one thing he hated almost as much as powerlessness, it was indecisiveness.

He was used to knowing infinitely more about a situation than any other involved party, to having the upper hand. He was not used to being tossed a conundrum that no amount of deduction or persuasion could solve. He'd been literally unable to do anything more than watch and hope for the best. He'd been sidelined, forced to sit out on the fight for his baby brother's life. Naturally, this encouraged him to bolster his control over the things he actually could: namely, their parents.

It hadn't been an easy decision by any stretch of the imagination. Mycroft had deliberated pros and cons for hours until he thought his brain would explode under the strain. To tell or not to tell, that was the question. If he informed them of the situation, they'd undoubtedly drop whatever they were doing and rush to Sherlock's side. But would their presence be a help or a hindrance? Sherlock's support system didn't necessarily need reinforcements; he had Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, and of course John Watson. How much good could two extra well-wishers possibly do?

Secondly, the Holmes boys both knew their parents had a tendency to mollycoddle, something which Sherlock had despised since early childhood. Their mother's frankly overbearing presence would not necessarily facilitate recovery. Mycroft knew that, if the decision were left up to him, his brother wouldn't want them around to fuss over him.

Thirdly, was it fair to summon them to witness one of the worst things that could possibly happen to their youngest son? Was it not preferable for them to lead their lives unaware of the tragedy unfolding back in London? What was the expression... ignorance is bliss? If Mycroft refrained from telling them, it would end one of two ways. Either they'd hear the story of Sherlock's triumphant fight against leukaemia, or they'd be informed of his death, knowing there was nothing they could've done. If he told them, they would either watch their son suffer through treatment to make it out the other side, or they'd watch him wither away and die before their eyes, knowing there's nothing they can do.

If Mycroft could foresee the ending to this saga, the decision would be easy. If Sherlock was going to live, he should inform them. If he was to die, Mycroft should spare them the extra suffering and wait until after Sherlock's passing to share the news. Alas, he had no way of knowing how this would turn out.

As a final decision evaded him, he turned to the only other person who really mattered in this debate: Sherlock himself. Mycroft deliberated for days after they learned of the diagnosis before he accepted defeat. During that time, there were very few moments in which he could speak to Sherlock privately. Either Dr. Watson was in the room with them, or Sherlock was asleep and Mycroft dare not wake him from much-needed rest. However, the perfect time eventually arose.

"Sherlock, I'm afraid I have a rather important question to ask you." Mycroft had said. His brother didn't respond verbally, just looked at him blearily and managed to nod. "What do we tell Mummy and Dad?" He knew it was a lot to ask of a man currently contemplating a massive amount of information—including possibly his own demise—but he had no one else to turn to.

"Nothing," Sherlock rasped. "Let them be."

"Are you sure? I've no doubt they'd want nothing more to be with you during this... troubling time."

"Nothing."

And that was the end of that conversation. Mycroft's mind was made up. He would not tell their parents until they returned to England from wherever they'd gone this time. But Mycroft got so caught up in work that he didn't realize they'd arrived back home over a week ago.

As soon as his phone rang with the tone assigned to his parents, a sense of foreboding overcame him like a tidal wave. He knew he was in for it before he even picked up. He held it to his ear and began to utter a hello, when the angry voice of his mother interrupted and obliterated all chance of a civilised conversation.

"MYCROFT HOLMES!"

"Yes, Mummy," Mycroft's voice hadn't squeaked like that since puberty, and it did not bode well for the rest of the conversation.

"I don't even need to tell you what you've done wrong this time, as I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Yes. Let me explain—"

"No. I don't want your explanation. I just want you to listen to me when I tell you that your father and I are absolutely heartbroken. As parents, we expect a certain amount of lies and deceit, but I never imagined my own son would keep something this important from me. Mycroft, my little boy was _dying_ and I was off drinking wine on holiday! How do you think that makes me feel? I've failed as a mother!"

"You haven't failed, Mummy. Sherlock and I agreed—"

"He was in on this—this treachery!" Mycroft considered telling her that Sherlock had been the deciding vote on whether to tell them, but he couldn't let his little brother take any of the heat. The last thing he needed on top of everything else was his own mother's wrath. Mycroft would force all the blame onto himself.

"Somewhat. I asked him for approval of my decision, and he gave it."

"Why? I can't imagine him wanting to go through something like that all alone."

"Mummy, I assure you he was far from alone."

"Mycroft, he's never really adored your company."

"No, not me," Mycroft began. "Not only me," he corrected. "He's got himself a circle of close friends, many of which were by his side every possible second."

"Well, at least you aren't completely stupid. Good God, your brother gets diagnosed with cancer, and you don't even think to tell your parents?"

"Believe me, I did think about it. Endlessly."

"Your father and I expect a thorough explanation for your insolence when we see you tomorrow." This was news to Mycroft; he hadn't planned any encounter with his parents. Then again, he didn't realize they were in the country until he received this phone call.

"I didn't realize we had an engagement tomorrow," he admitted.

"We didn't. Until now. We'll be visiting your brother in the afternoon, and you will be there. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Mummy."

That was the end of the phone call. Mycroft took a deep breath and massaged his temples to alleviate the headache that had been building with his mother's scathing remarks. He considered for a moment the possibility that he'd miscalculated and made the wrong decision, but quickly dismissed the prospect. He'd much rather be the target of verbal abuse than watch his mother grieve. She'd get over this rage, eventually. But if she'd seen some of the things that Mycroft and Dr. Watson had witnessed, they'd haunt her for the rest of her life.

~0~

Mycroft visited 221B Baker Street on occasion, but he was rarely welcomed by its occupants. Today was no different. Sherlock scowled at him the second he laid eyes on his older brother, and John appeared resigned to whatever argument was about to ensue.

"I'm assuming you've been made privy to Mummy's, shall I say qualms, regarding our decision-making?"

"Our? This was your idea," Sherlock replied.

"I seem to recall asking your opinion on the matter. You instructed me to tell them nothing."

"You can't prove that. I have very little recollection of that time period. Must be all the poison they pumped through me."

"Brother, I will gladly take the fall for this, but you _will_ have to answer to her."

"Yes, John has informed me of the things someone in my situation should and should not address." Mycroft looked to the doctor to see if this was true, but he only shrugged resignedly.

"Let's hope you studied up."

"Of course I have. But, one thing, Mycroft," Sherlock tone suddenly changed from mildly irritated to sincerely concerned. "Have they been warned of the... changes?"

Shit. Sherlock didn't need to specify for Mycroft to know what he was referring to and no, their parents hadn't been informed. Unless some photo had been leaked to the press and they'd somehow gotten a hold of it, the Holmes parents had no idea what was in store. Once they observed the true extent of the damage inflicted, their fussing would increase tenfold. Sherlock's face reflected his dread of this moment, but they had little time to dwell on it. The doorbell rang and Mrs. Hudson let Mr. and Mrs. Holmes up to the flat. Despite their familiarity with their parents, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had the faintest idea how this reunion would go. They only knew it would be unpleasant.

Mycroft took a step back and watched his mother's face fall as she laid eyes on her youngest son. Moving at an incredible pace for a woman of her age, she rushed at Sherlock and nearly tackled him in the ferocity of her embrace. Sherlock's childhood nickname, "Locky," had barely escaped her lips before she burst into tears. The situation made Mycroft feel as uncomfortable as Sherlock looked, trapped in his mother's grasp. He clearly didn't know what to do with himself, so he just stood there limply and let Mummy hold him. Mycroft observed that he'd buried his right hand in his pocket, and predicted it may stay hidden for the entirety of the visit.

Their father reacted not with an outburst like their mother, but with a steady deflation. He stood near Mycroft, his eyes fixed on his wife and child. He appeared to physically shrink by the inch as the seconds ticked by, the full scope of the horrors his son must've endured gradually sinking in. Mycroft wasn't sure whose reaction was more agonizing to witness.

John evidently thought he was trespassing on a family affair, and he stood up to leave the room. Sherlock stopped him in his tracks with a pleading gaze. Their propensity for flawless non-verbal communication always left Mycroft awestruck. He and Sherlock could do that to a certain degree, but they'd known each other for decades. Dr. Watson had been a part of Sherlock's life for mere years, yet their connection ran just as deep, if not deeper, as the fraternal one between Sherlock and Mycroft. John returned to his chair and watched helplessly as Sherlock continued to be throttled by his weeping mother.

"Mum, I'm okay. Really," Sherlock spluttered, his lungs somewhat constricted by his mother's grasp. At last, she released him, wiping and endless stream of tears from her face. Sherlock glanced to John, then back to Mum, and returned her hug. She buried her face in his shoulder again, almost falling into him. Maybe Mycroft had made the wrong decision. This was painful to witness. All the anger had drained out of her, replaced only with relief that her son lived.

This position left both of Sherlock's hands exposed, and Mycroft saw his father immediately pinpoint what was missing. He looked to Mycroft and gestured at his own hand in question. Mycroft leaned towards him and whispered, "If he tries to keep hiding it, just let him. Mummy doesn't need any more surprises to upset her." His father nodded understandingly and moved to take a seat on their couch. It took a few more minutes for their mother to calm down enough to allow Sherlock to release her. He'd attempted it a few times, but she'd clasped the material of his shirt and effectively held him in place. Finally, she sat down next to their father and leant up against him, the occasional tear still dripping down her face.

"I'm assuming you have questions," Sherlock remarked. Mycroft noted that he stood close to John's chair instead of taking a seat in his own.

"How could you?" their mother asked, fresh tears. "How could you keep this from us?"

"You'll have to ask Mycroft. I was in no state to go around informing people of anything. Though he tells me he acquired my approval, I don't recall giving it." Mycroft almost couldn't believe what he heard. His little brother was lying to save his own hide. Mycroft was being made the scapegoat, and there was nothing he could do to escape it. He couldn't antagonize Sherlock or call him out without being seen as cruel, giving his mother even more reason to hate him. Well, if there was ever a time Sherlock deserved to be let off the hook for lying, it was now.

"I deliberated this issue endlessly before coming to a decision. I thought it'd be better if you weren't made aware until it was all over," Mycroft explained.

Sherlock interjected, "Certain things would've been... painful to witness. John and Mycroft can attest to this."

"More painful than learning that our son was on death's door without his parents there to support him?" their mother questioned. Sherlock flinched at her word choice, but there was no denying that's exactly where he'd been.

"Yes. Mycroft's intention was mercy. Secrecy was the only way to spare you," Sherlock continued. Mummy cried some more after that, but their father looked at both boys and finally spoke his mind:

"I know you boys and your logic-oriented thinking. Most of the time, it'll take you as far as you need to go, but it's not foolproof—very few things in life are. Some things aren't about reason and number crunching. Both of you need to look at this through her eyes," he nodded at his wife beside him, "and understand what you did and why it is so distressing. Sherlock, you've always been a terrible liar, I know you were fully aware of what you agreed to." Their father's lie-detecting abilities never ceased to amaze Mycroft. Sherlock was by no means a terrible liar—he was one of the best—but Mr. Holmes saw right through him each and every time. "I hate to put it like this, but I must get this message across. If you had died, Sherlock, we would've been robbed of the opportunity to say goodbye. We would've gotten a phone call informing us that you were gone and that your last months had been spent in misery. And we never would've gotten the chance to tell you how proud we are of everything you've accomplished, or gotten to hold your hand and assure you that we'd see you again someday. We wouldn't have gotten to tell you how much we love you. It is that possibility that haunts your mother and me. I will say this once, boys, and I hope you take it to heart: never, ever take away someone's right to say 'I love you.'"

Everyone in the room was stunned, even Mr. Holmes himself. Usually, he went along with whatever their mother said, not bothering to think for himself. Such a heartfelt lecture had never been recited by this man for as long as Mycroft could remember. His father's expression reflected this sentiment; apparently he hadn't thought himself capable of such emotional reprimand either. John appeared flabbergasted, possibly because he'd never know a Holmes who would so openly discuss his feelings. Mycroft met Sherlock eyes and saw his own shame reflected there as well. Nothing, not even his mother's anger had made Mycroft feel remorse such as this. He hoped he'd never have to feel it again.

Sherlock was the first to speak, "I—I'm sorry. My reasons for insisting you weren't told were rather selfish. I'm afraid I just wanted to minimize the number of people who would see me at my worst." Mycroft heard this and knew immediately that he must apologize as well.

"I, too, must apologize to you both. It should have been clear to me that informing you was the only option even worth considering. I regret that my actions have caused you strife, and I hope I can make amends," Mycroft said sincerely. After this, a series of hugs between the four Holmes ensued. No one in the room had refrained from crying, whether from joy, catharsis, or relief. After a brief discussion of Sherlock's current condition, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes announced their departure. Mycroft walked them to the door and promised, "Should he relapse, God forbid, you'll be the first to know."

"I expect nothing less, Mike," his mother replied.

"Thank you Dad, your words were... immensely meaningful."

"It's my duty as a father to instil a good moral code in my sons. I may have failed to do that earlier in your lives; it's only fitting I do so now," he said. Mycroft allowed his mother to plant a goodbye kiss before seeing them out the door. He considered leaving John and Sherlock be, but decided instead to rejoin them upstairs for a brief discussion.

"It appears we made a grave miscalculation," Mycroft told Sherlock.

"Yes, it appears so. I never knew Dad could string so many sentences together at once," he said.

"Neither did I, but we now know he can speak his mind when the mood strikes him, and we'd best beware when it does."

"Indeed."


End file.
